


Fighting For This Feeling

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boxing, And It's Angsty of Course, Angst, Because Dean Cannot Go Quietly Into the Night, Boxer Dean Winchester, Brotherly Bonding, Brotherly Love, Dean In Love, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Professor Sam Winchester, Some Humor, There MIGHT be a prequel, Voice of Reason Sam Winchester, always and forever, paramedic Castiel, practice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-27
Updated: 2018-06-27
Packaged: 2019-05-29 07:56:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15068660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: “You’re a persistent son of a bitch, you know that?”“Persistence wins Nobel Prizes.”Dean grimaces around his cigarette looking over at Sam. “Ugh, are you happy? Now that you penciled that into your journal?”“At least I’m talking.”





	Fighting For This Feeling

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO. I think Cas pulled me from Hell??? I'm not quite sure what happened, but I know aside from Perdition, I was pulled from a mighty dryspell.
> 
> Obviously inspired by that picture on Jensen's Instagram of him and Jared boxing.  
> You know the picture.  
> Please cry with me over it all over again.

Sam blocks Dean’s left hook with his forearm for the third time. "What's going on?"

"What?" Dean asks, going in with an even weaker uppercut.

Sam just gives him the slip, thrusting out his right arm to push Dean’s face away.

"Sam, quit dicking around, you know the tournament's in two weeks."

"I was gonna say the same to you.”

Shucking off his gloves and climbing over the ropes, Dean leaves Sam to guffaw.

“Are you fucking joking me right now? You’re gonna leave, just like that? In the middle of practice?”

“Relax!” Dean yells to the disembodied, nagging voice behind him as he stalks off. “I’m just taking a break!”

Once outside, sitting on one of the many stair steps that lead to the entrance, Dean tries concentrating on the high-pitched scuffs of the AC coming from inside, or the faint sounds of the road, carrying with it the smells of takeout curry and diesel, to no avail. Instead, the sounds and smells make him more nauseated, causing him to grind his teeth like there’s hard, gooey candy wedged between his cavities. It rips the skin of his unlit cigarette, spilling nicotine and whatever other hot dog-variety shavings in the joint onto his tongue.

It’s bitter. But it does distract him.

And simultaneously makes him feel even more stupid.

Two minutes must be too long of a break, because he hears his brother’s familiar patter come up behind him.

“You’re a persistent son of a bitch, you know that?”

“Persistence wins Nobel Prizes.”

Dean grimaces around his cigarette looking over at Sam. “Ugh, are you happy? Now that you penciled that into your journal?”

“At least I’m talking.”

Dean makes a point out of smacking his newly wet lips together.

“Are you done?” Sam asks with little heat. “Are you gonna talk about what’s bothering you now?”

Dean plucks his cigarette from his mouth before flinging it off the stairs with a sigh. He knows he’s not gonna get Sam off his back. The kid’s like a monkey. Except, instead of encouraging him to do drugs to, oh, _escape_ from his petty problems, he encourages talk therapy.

So he talks. Or tries to anyway:

"I..." Dean scratches his neck. "I'm, kinda… well, see—”

"Dean. Who is it?"

Dean flings sweat from the fine hairs decorating the back of his neck before letting his hand slap against his thigh with a harsh exhale, "You know who it is."

"No, I don't," Sam asserts, "because I never hear it from your mouth. Every time you so much as mention someone's name, you write them off the next day. And when you do fall for someone, you try to fight it like one of your tourna—”

Dean lifts his head. Anxiety balloons out his chest, crushing his ribcage. Part of him wants Sam to figure him out, to echo the writings on the cave walls he’s enclosed himself in so he can hear them out loud, hear how stupid they sound, while another part wants the misinterpretation, just so they can move on. Dean would need more than a needle to deflate his worry, but at least he can hang onto some semblance of normal.

But his brother knows him better than anyone. Sam knows bits and pieces of almost every language, but he’s most fluent in non-verbal. Especially when it comes to Dean.

"Except now, you're not even putting up a fight.” Sam’s eyes widen. “You're scared."

" _Excuse me?"_

"You're scared,” Sam reiterates with a scoff. “You’re afraid someone’s gonna tear through your thick fucking skull and actually see a part of you you don’t like.”

Dean keeps his head up, but averts his gaze again.

“Everyone has doubts,” Sam reassures. “Hell, it’s normal to put up walls. It’s certainly _easier. Safer._ When so many people overstep their boundaries, it makes sense to be skeptical or wary that someone else won’t do the same. And they _might_ do the same. But is it really worth being so sure when you’re miserable at the end of the day? Isn’t it better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all?”

“Did you just quote Alfred Lord Tennyson at me?”

“Did you just quote _knowing_ Alfred Lord Tennyson?”

“Hey, I read.”

Sam laughs softly, shaking his head, when Dean decides to catch him off guard: "Cas. It’s Cas.”

Sam looks like he’s smiling distantly, but then, Sam always looks distant. Like he’s in on something Dean isn’t. It’s always made Dean feel inferior to him. After all, Sam is the golden child. Straight A’s, Stanford, trophy girlfriend-turned wife.

Dean’s a tarnished copper at best. He paid more attention to double-D’s and skipped college to go straight into boxing. It’s a good release, and the best part is, no one can beat himself up more than he already does himself.

"I know,” Sam responds.

Dean’s mouth parts to accommodate the scoff escaping him, “Jesus, Sam. Your modesty’s _almost_ surpassed by the length of your hair.”

“And your smartass comments are _definitely_ surpassed by the length of your—”

“Dude, what happened to being poetic?”

“Why do you think I’m a professor? I’m a philosopher, not a poet. Stealing famous quotes from the English language is not poetry… or, actually, I guess it is now in the pop music industry… _anyway.”_ Sam rolls his eyes before leveling with Dean: “I’m happy for you. You deserve to be happy.”

Sam’s words are like the flipside of a gum-sealed penny on the hot sidewalk: burning a hole in Dean’s chest. They’re simple words, but words he doesn’t hear nearly as much as he should. (Or maybe he does and he chooses not to listen to them.)

So naturally, Dean socks Sam in the arm.

“ _Ow!_ What was that for?!”

“Being off your guard,” Dean supplies with a wink before helping his groaning brother up.

Sam reassumes position just before a laugh slips from him.

“What?”

“I think you just won the fight.”

Dean turns to meet the nod of Sam’s head.  Standing in front of the building is Cas. The broad, inked arm not propping him against the stair railing holds a double shot espresso with two extra creams and one sugar with Dean’s name scribbled on it. His legs are slightly crossed, wrinkling his navy khakis to match his eyes: scrunched and blue to house that famous slow, stretching smile moving in downstairs of his nicked nose. (Courtesy of Dean by _accident_ when he was admitted to Lazarus Emergency Care across the street a few weeks back… then the following week… then a few days later.)

Even though he probably can’t say the same for Cas, Dean’s not going to dodge any more punches.

He’s gonna go down swinging fighting for himself, and for Cas.

**Author's Note:**

> Cas's occupation inspired by THIS ART BECAUSE WOW:  
> https://www.pinterest.com/pin/153896512250812584/


End file.
